


Useless Condolences

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Neglect, Child Stiles Stilinski, Full Shift Werewolves, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Werefox Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 13:32:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16306091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: He stares at it, the still raw earth where his Claudia is buried and some animal has dug, and he’s too tired to do anything but nod and accept condolences.





	Useless Condolences

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this](https://twothumbsandnostakeincanon.tumblr.com/post/179064184747/take-him-to-jail-sheriff)
> 
> post on tumblr and HAD to write something.   
> Its my first bad parent Sheriff and it hurt to write so there's that.

He gets the call a week after he come back from bereavement leave. He’s hip deep in paperwork and grief, desperate for a drink and Tara pokes her head in to say, “Personal call for you, Sheriff.”

He wouldn’t have taken it, but Stiles is home alone, had begged to left there and not with McCall, and he knows enough to worry.

It’s not Stiles.

“Sir, there’s been a disturbance. At the grave.”

~*~

He goes. It doesn’t look real, still doesn’t feel real, but he goes. There’s apologies made and he wants to rage, but in the end–

In the end he’s too tired. He stares at it, the still raw earth where his Claudia is buried and some animal has dug, and he’s too tired to do anything but nod and accept condolences.

More useless fucking condolences.

~*~

He leaves work early and starts drinking when he hits the door, and doesn’t stop til he’s on the edge of passing out, and small pale hands gently tug the bottle away.

~*~

It happens, again. Not always. Not even often. But often enough.

He wonders what the beast wants, why the hell it chose Claudia–when he can wonder at all, and does his level best to drink away his questions.

Drinking away everything is working for him, even if he does feel like he’s drowning, like his son is a ghost lurking in shadows, like they’re both haunting a house too empty now.

~*~

He knows he’s not what Stiles needs. Knows he’s fucking up. But the boy’s got his pack and Peter, and he hurts, so  _much_  he can’t muster the energy to be better.

He thinks, sometimes, Claudia would hate him for that.

~*~

“Sir,” the familiar voice of the funeral director is tight and urgent and he straightens a little. “We trapped it.”

He drops everything, and goes, fury stiffening every inch of him. Fucking  _finally._

~*~

He sees a wolf before he reaches the grave, snarling and snapping and he pauses, stomach turning. Whiskey sloshes, acidic and damming, in his gut. He presses past Peter, almost running. He knows what he’ll see when he reaches his wife’s grave and it still hits him like a punch, still almost takes him to his knees.

The fox is small and sandy and giant ears are pinned to its– _his_ —body, and he’s screaming in grief as he scrabbles at the trap.

“Let him go,” he snarls and the fox goes still.

~*~

He forgot.

He didn’t mean to–but he forgot.

That his grief was shared, that Stiles lost his alpha when his mother died.

He forgot to care and every whiskey soaked night, every blurry morning, every hand brushed aside because he was too tired, too empty, too angry confused lost to care–they all weigh on him as he holds his hand out, coaxing the fennec fox from its trap.

Stiles is shaking when he creeps out and into his father’s hand–but he does come and maybe  _maybe_  he can do things right still.

~*~

Stiles makes a whining noise, quiet distress and aching loss, when they turn to leave, the fox curled against his chest, paws dirty and nose twitching.

“Oh, son,” he whispers. He holds him close and presses his lips to the fox’s fur, and fights back tears and guilt.

His boy. His strong, beautiful boy has grieved too. Has come here, desperate and alone, and scrabbled at the dirt to dig her up.

He’s fucked up so much.

“I’m here, son,” he whispers and for the first time since before Claudia died, he means it. “I’m here. You’ve still got me.”

~*~

They have each other and it’s not enough. The hole Claudia left can’t be filled. But he carries his son, a tiny fox curled against his broad chest, home, and vows he’ll do everything he can to be everything Stiles needs.


End file.
